


Hope Waking

by Moonraykir



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Nightmares, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonraykir/pseuds/Moonraykir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She still sees the images, too bright and clear to be a dream: the orc captain driving a spike through his armored chest, his still body stained with blood, even—so vivid in her mind’s eye—the clean line of a cut that marks his cheek.  He died, she saw it, felt it.  The pain and shock of her loss tore through her heart, is still tearing it now that she has woken from the nightmare.  </p><p>Tauriel pushes herself up in bed, feeling suddenly, desperately alone in this room, buried under tons of stone, away from the sky and away from the comfort of any living touch.  She has to get out of this sepulcher; she needs to see him and feel him and know he is not gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maggiemaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggiemaye/gifts), [That_Elf_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Elf_Girl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [She Wakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3093476) by [zjofierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose). 



She wakes, to blackness and a roof of stone.  It is a tomb.  His tomb?  The one they surely laid him in after—  

She still sees the images, too bright and clear to be a dream: the orc captain driving a spike through his armored chest, his still body stained with blood, even—so vivid in her mind’s eye—the clean line of a cut that marks his cheek.  He died, she saw it, _felt it._   The pain and shock of her loss tore through her heart, is still tearing it now that she has woken from the nightmare.  

Tauriel pushes herself up in bed, feeling suddenly, desperately alone in this room, buried under tons of stone, away from the sky and away from the comfort of any living touch.  She has to get out of this sepulcher; she needs to see him and feel him and know he is not gone.

She is slipping down half-lit hallways to the royal quarters before she quite knows what she does.  The king’s guards give her a bemused look and let her pass, apparently having no experience dealing with distraught elf-women invading the palace in their nightgowns.  Tauriel is dimly aware, now, that her visit is highly improper, but the objection hardly seems material.

This door must be his, two down from the king’s own, and she knocks or perhaps pounds—she is not thinking of the sound echoing from the stone walls around her, but only of her need to see his face.  

She feels she has been standing here hours, though perhaps it has only been moments, when the door opens and Kíli himself is staring up at her, clearly confused.  He is only half dressed and his hair is a tangle.

“Taur?” he mumbles.  

She falls to her knees before him and begins to weep.  

Kíli takes her gently by the shoulders.  “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice still rough with sleep.

“I dreamed—” she gasps.  “The battle—  I lost you.”

He pulls her to him then, a little ungracefully and hard enough that her head thumps against his breastbone, but she is grateful for the accidental roughness because he feels so solid and present.  She cries against him, the tears a relief now, rather than a pain.  

Kíli smoothes his fingers through her hair and whispers something against the top of her head.  She cannot tell if the words are in common or his own tongue, but the sound is soothing.

Someone else speaks behind her, and Tauriel realizes she has woken others in her urgency.  

“It’s nothing to worry you,” Kíli explains over her head.  “She only needs me.”

Tauriel lifts her face from him to see his brother and his uncle both staring at them.  Fíli nods then and shuffles back towards bed, though Thorin stares a bit longer, as if Tauriel has suddenly made sense to him at last.  He mutters something in what she is quite sure is Khuzdul this time, and leaves, too.

Kíli looks back to Tauriel, and his expression makes it clear that a woman on his doorstep in the middle of the night is not a problem he has faced before.  He glances back into his room once, clearly considering the option.  No, they both know how improper that would be.  

“Wait here; I’ll be just a moment,” he instructs her.  He pads back into the room on bare feet and soon returns, a blanket gathered in his arms.  After he has folded heavy wool about her shoulders, he raises her to her feet.  

“This way,” he says, and leads her back past the guards, whose astonishment is quite plain on their faces.  

Kíli takes her to one of the central common rooms.  Though there is no one here now, the room is hardly a private one and they will not be suspected of any indecency.  He puts more wood on the fire and then joins her on the rug before the hearth.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks.

Tauriel shakes her head and draws her fingers over his cheek, where she had dreamed a cut.  His chest, too, is unmarred, the skin clean and whole over his heart.  

“I dream about it, too, sometimes,” he confesses. “Sometimes I dream I died; sometimes my uncle, or Fí, or...”  He leaves the last name unspoken, but she knows it is her own.

She traces the scar on his upper arm, the one mark he truly carries from that battle.  The firelight hides the color of scar tissue, though the healing skin is still rough under her touch.

“How do you bear it?” she asks at last.  “The thought of losing them?”  It is something she has hidden from, for so long.  She has never wanted to feel she could lose something so precious again, and now he makes her afraid, because of how much she needs him.

He sighs, and considers her for a long while before answering.

“I suppose...”  He reaches out and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.  “I think about how lucky we are to be here.  But it’s not luck, is it?  Don’t you think, maybe, we’re here because we’re supposed to be?  I think there’s more for us to do, and so somebody—Mahal, Eru—”  he paused, searching for the name of one of her elvish gods, “Elbereth—is making sure we’re here to do it.  So whatever happens next, it will be good.”

Tauriel looses a long breath, the tension in her chest easing somewhat as she does so.  

“That’s beautiful,” she tells him.  _He_ is beautiful, because he has given her hope and wonder when she has least expected to find it.  She has known this since the first time she spoke with him.  

He gives a slight smile, self-conscious.  “Maybe.  But not as beautiful as you.”

She is, Tauriel realizes with a piercing conviction stronger than she has felt before, one of the reasons he can believe what he has just told her.  She is proof of the goodness he hopes in.  

“Thank you,” she breathes.  It is not his compliment, but his faith that she is grateful for.  

He nods.

After a moment, he adds “Here, share some of that blanket with me,” and she wraps him close to her beneath woven runes.  

Before long, they are both dozing, each propped against the other.  As Tauriel’s head slips off his shoulder for the second time, Kíli observes sleepily, “You know, this would work better if—”  He finishes the thought by demonstration, stretching out beside the hearth and drawing her down with him.  

Kíli is asleep quite soon, and Tauriel feels less guilty, now, for waking him.  She lies awake for some while longer, her head on his chest, replacing the dream-memory of cold stillness with his warmth, his breath, his heartbeat.  

He is good, far more good than anything she ever expected to find, and he must be right.  They are more than lucky; they are given this time so that they may make something beautiful.  She will not let the ghosts of yesterday steal that from her.  She will not be afraid.  

The shadow of the dream passes at last, and she sleeps.


	2. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [That_Elf_Girl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Elf_Girl/pseuds/That_Elf_Girl) asked for the scene from Thorin's perspective, which proved unexpectedly fruitful. Thanks for the request!

Thorin is woken by a sound of hard, insistent blows upon echoing stone.  The hour is very early, not yet morning: this he knows by a dwarf’s instinct, rather than from any external sign (there is none, under the mountain).

The noise—someone beating on a door nearby, Thorin realizes now—ceases as he pushes out of bed and goes to his own door, already anticipating what might threaten the security of Erebor.  Orcs breaking through the closed-up worm tunnels?  A warg pack ravaging the valley?  The Elvenking, recent alliances forgotten, besieging them anew?  

Thorin steps into the hall, already drawing breath to growl a demand to the guard, who has unaccountably woken a prince before his king.

There is no guard, no messenger.  Only the stranger elf woman, crumpled at Kíli’s feet and weeping as though her heart were breaking.  

Thorin stares at her, not quite sure what he is seeing.  This woman—Tauriel—has dwelt here at Kíli’s invitation since the battle a month ago.  Kíli adores her, that has been clear enough, but what she means by staying, Thorin has never been sure.  Her manners are so foreign and reserved, and she remains inscrutable to him.  If Kíli were to ask his uncle’s advice—which he does not—Thorin would warn him not to set too much hope on the affection of an exile and an immortal, a woman whose need for a dwarf is surely only temporary.  

“What has happened?” Thorin demands, his vision of an enemy at the gates rapidly giving way to some other urgent, though shapeless, notion of calamity within the mountain itself.   Tauriel would not be here at this hour without reason.

Kíli looks up from her disheveled copper head, apparently noticing his uncle for the first time.  Fíli, too, has opened his own door and stands peering at his brother and the elf.

“It’s nothing to worry you.  She only needs me,” Kíli tells them.

This is apparently explanation enough for Fíli, who nods in sleepy recognition and disappears back to bed.  

Yet Thorin stands watching them, still seeking what Fíli has seen so easily.

Tauriel’s distress is real; Thorin can see that clearly enough.  She has come here, careless of the inconvenience and impropriety of the hour, seeking the comfort only one person can give her.  Under Kíli’s hands, she has soothed as readily as a frightened child in a parent's arms, and Thorin can no longer doubt there is a true connection between her and his nephew.  

Her arms wound about Kíli and her head pressed to his heart, Tauriel holds him as if he is the one thing anchoring her in this moment; as if the world, with all its shocks and uncertainties, would be all too much to bear without him.  This is not the poised elven outsider, cool and controlled and incomprehensible, that Thorin has always seen.  She is simply a woman, vulnerable and real and very much in love with Kíli.  

Thorin no longer wonders why she stays here, in this mountain among strangers.  Oddly and yet truly enough, this is where she belongs.  

Kíli is right; they need only each other.  “I trust you to handle this appropriately,” Thorin pronounces, the words in Khuzdul and the message meant for Kíli alone: they are free to find their comfort in one another, provided that they remain within the bounds of propriety, which in this particular context means Kíli is barred from inviting her to his bed.

From his brief flicker of a smile as he nods, Kíli appears to catch Thorin’s intent.

Satisfied, Thorin leaves them then, and with the very odd feeling that tonight has both revealed and resolved some crucial flaw in Erebor’s wellbeing, he returns to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I read "She Wakes" by **zjofierose** this morning, which is a lovely little angst piece. It successfully broke my heart and then resulted in my writing this. That's the problem with being someone who daydreams in words; every little idea insists on being written. 
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely miss [Maggiemaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/) because I really admire her skill for writing fluff that has something deep at the heart.


End file.
